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 So that was that.

The Kid's sensational win over Dynamite removed the last barrier between us and the mill with the champ, but that clout in the ribs gummed up the works a bit. Some X-ray stills of the thing showed a nasty fracture, and the best bonesetter in New York claims it would be suicide for the boy to enter a ring inside of three months. However, I cheered up and made the best of it, figurin' that the long rest would do the Kid good, as I didn't want him drawn too fine from too much work. Three months' lay-up would also ease the strain on his nerves and give him a chance to put on weight—not fat—for the champ, which scaled around 215 ringside to the Kid's 195.

They was little hagglin' over signin' the articles, three weeks later. Twenty-five rounds to a decision was fin'ly agreed on as the distance, and I captured the champ's goat early by remarkin' that two rounds would be ample. The king of the heavyweights demanded $125,000, win, lose, draw, or earthquake, and Jimmy Brandt, the promoter, which had come prepared to give him twice that and throw in Grant's Tomb if necessary, kidded the big boob into fin'ly acceptin' $110,000. When it come to dealin' with us, they was even less bargainin'. Me and Brandt had got that all set a week before, viz., $30,000 guarantee, $10,000 trainin' expenses, and 33 1-3 of the movie rights. These last can be showed in Europe, South America, and the like, and if the massacre goes long enough is worth more than you think.

Well, after I have put up a ten-thousand-buck ap-